a moment, though
by strangesmallbard
Summary: the woman's hands are calloused, but not rough. they hold, surely, but they do not grab. she smiles, and stops running. "yes, i danced with the prince." (this is how a story changes.)


a/n: The title is from "Moments in the Woods" from the show.

* * *

this is a story that doesn't have to end with a death, or one, or two, or several.

people don't have to die for a lesson to be learned, for something to start. _wives_ don't have to die for husbands to become the fathers that theirs never were. there are different deaths that are still final, but aren't an end.

* * *

cinderella didn't grow up wishing for a prince, but for a ball. of clothes not rags, of hair swept off her shoulderblades, of a glittering horizon just beyond her scuffed fingertips. of course, with that, came a prince. she was fine with that. a prince was a dream-like thing; she knew she'd never get one, so why bother thinking about it at length?

and so she didn't.

but the dream died when it came to life, and the prince's hands were rough and his smile, pleasant, that was the word, _pleasant_ , and there were beautiful princesses with beautiful smiles, and she noticed, and noticed, her heart beating along the waltz's rhythm.

the ball was beautiful, and yet there was something _wrong_. the wrongness swept her in its arms and jostled her stomach. the laughter encroached on her. it took three terms around the magnificent, marble-floored ballroom to realize that it was _her._

when he suggests they go outside, she runs.

(he was a very _nice_ prince. and it was a very _nice_ ball.)

* * *

you see, the woods are the space between life and death. where everything is possible and everything is impossible all at once.

cinderella runs through the forest, trying to escape the wrongness, and her feet ache from a pair of very nice shoes. the trees are so tall, and the night is so cold. she thinks she may never escape.

(why does the palace feel like the end, when it should feel like the beginning?)

* * *

at the very same time, the baker's wife is walking to, not from.

find the items to end the curse, have a baby, run the shop, sweep her hair off the back of her neck, kiss her husband on the cheek, a lot of things and endless things, and sometimes, a what if. her best girlhood friend's lingering kiss on her cheek. a far-away prince, a dream.

and then, her baker, and his hands warm from fresh bread.

beginnings and ends all wrapped together, separate ends of the woods.

* * *

she crashes into cinderella somewhere between one thought and a next.

"oh!" she exclaims, taking in jewels and satin and curled lashes set upon a soft, soft face. she flushes. "you've come from the ball?"

cinderella is caught by the messy rope of hair falling over her shoulder, and the heave of her bosom. she pulls herself up using a tree trunk. "yes. i've come from the ball."

the baker's wife clasps her hands and grins. "tell me all about it! oh, did you dance with the prince?"

the woman's hands are calloused, but not rough. they hold, surely, but they do not grab. she smiles, and stops running. "yes, i danced with the prince."

the woman laughs. "that can't be all!"

he was a very _nice_ prince, she thinks again, but she can't get the words to feel any lighter, and then, a horse in the distance.

she steps back and falls.

"please, tell no one i'm here!"

the woman grabs her hand again.

"wait, are you _running_ from the ball? who runs from a ball? who runs from a prince?"

cinderella has no chance to answer that either, before the baker's wife sees something glitter by her feet.

"your shoe!"

"what?"

"i need your shoe!"

the woman lunges for her feet, and cinderella runs from the woods, not to.

* * *

(i wish) (more than anything) (more than life!)

cinderella dances with the prince the second night, and wills her lungs to expand with joy.

around the same time the baker's wife calls rapunzel's hair down, thinks of her child, thinks of her husband, thinks of rapunzel's silhouette so lovely against moonlight.

(i wish)

* * *

she collides with cinderella again just before midnight.

"look, wait!"

"why do you want my shoe? what could you possibly want with just one shoe?"

"i need it to have a child!"

"that makes no sense!"

now in some versions of this story, where there are more deaths that are final, cinderella runs again from the baker's wife, runs from the woods, to a space where she can breathe, and this is the last time they meet.

in this story, the baker's wife takes her hand again just as cinderella's foot is about to catch on another root.

"please."

there's something in her eyes that stops her. something new and raw and altogether exhilarating. she steps away from the root at the same moment a familiar clip-clop of hooves sound in the distance.

"hide me, and i'll listen."

* * *

two women sit in the woods, together.

there are men searching for them, and men willing them away, and men wanting too little and too much, but it's always men in the woods wanting women _out_. to go to where it is safe. where the answers are there, unhidden by shadows. where life and death are very, very different concepts.

two women sit in the woods, together, and do not run out or run in.

"so that's why i need the shoe." the baker's wife finishes.

cinderella blinks. "oh." she blinks yet again. "that's still ridiculous."

"i suppose so. the witch never did tell us why we needed those items. i wished for a baby so much that it didn't really matter."

"what's your name?" cinderella asks, because all this talk of witches and spells and babies is starting to feel like she's still being twirled around a ballroom.

"my name?"

"everyone's got one."

"nora. it's nora. sort of plain, really."

she bumps her knee. "i like it. it rolls off the tongue."

the baker's wife–nora–smiles. "and what's yours?"

"oh, it's ella. cinderella, to a lot of people because i like sitting by the cinders. it's very warm and cozy."

"i sit in front of the baking bread for the same reason. my husband–" she blinks. "my husband! it must be nearly midnight."

ella sighs and takes off a shoe. "here."

nora's fingers brush with hers as the shoe is passed. "thank you, ella. i will never forget your kindness."

"and i, the lady who wanted my shoe to have a damn baby."

nora laughs.

* * *

the next night, ella does not go to the festival. she sits in front of the cinders.

the next day she packs a bag with her few belongings, the few coins she's collected over the years, and leaves her father's home.

* * *

and so it goes. the spell is broken, and all is happy until it's not. beginnings and ends. princess cinderella dies because ella never marries the prince. cinderella dies when ella accepts a job at the inn. and nora has her baby, along with more what-ifs.

they do not meet again until the baker comes across a woman weeping by her mother's grave. she took too long to ask for her wish.

"come back with me." he says. "you'll be safe with us."

"no." she says. "no, i'm alright."

* * *

ella leaves when she hears the giantess approaching.

but not before she sees nora, hiding herself among the bushes, about to teeter off the edge of a cliff.

"nora!" she yells. "nora!"

there is a moment of possibility and impossibility, and ella manages to pull nora out of harm's way.

they hold each other, and watch as the giantess falls instead.

* * *

in this story, the giantess still wants to kill jack and does not succeed.

there are still deaths, though not several. she does die, and sometimes little red will look up at the sky and wonder while she sharpens her knife, all the way up until her hair is grey.

they try to find meanings and blame and more meanings and more blame, but in the end she dies, and it was when they all banded together under the rubble, that they understood that there is no meaning to be found, no lesson to learn.

they all wished for a lot of things, and ended up with each other and a lot of messes to clean up.

they simply have to leave the woods, and move on.

* * *

they go home. and make a home. they clear away the rubble, and ella cleans because she wants to.

the baker goes back to his bread, and the children play outside. ella and nora take their time out in the remains of the witch's garden, salvaging what they can. they talk about princes, for a bit. they talk about the ball some more. and then their pasts, bits of themselves seldom shared, beautiful smiles, and kisses on cheeks. the what-ifs, and dream-things.

there's a moment, and a moment always lasts too long and not long enough, where their eyes meet, and all those impossibilities and possibilities meet together at last. in this euphony, ella understands.

and breathes.

nora can live. ella can sit by her side as the bread is baking. the baker can look upon them fondly with their son. dream-things can die, as new stories form new paths. a beginning starts after an end, but that end does not have to be a death. not every time.

two women can leave the woods too, hands clasped together.

this is the story where that happens, and the rest does too.


End file.
